


Anything But Gardenias

by whitesheets



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/F, Femslash, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 19:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15565140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitesheets/pseuds/whitesheets
Summary: Andy should have known some shit like this was theonlypotential outcome there could be, for bad ideas executed at 2AM.





	Anything But Gardenias

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, fandom. It's been close to 3 years since I'd posted anything in the DWP fandom as I've been exploring other pairings and fandoms, but I was going through some old drafts I had today, and found this little gem I'd started writing some time back. I guess a lazy Saturday afternoon was all the kick I needed to continue this baby. I'm rusty but trying to get back into the DWP groove so I am not really planning this and only have a vague idea as to where this is going. 
> 
> Nonetheless, I had fun writing it, and I hope you'll have fun reading it too! 
> 
> No beta, so please excuse any mistakes.

Andy Sachs had only bought the flowers because she’d received a stupid coupon in the email, embedded in the sort of email newsletters people usually ignored.

It had been 2AM on a Tuesday night, and stricken with an unusual bout of insomnia, she’d mindlessly gone through her inbox, skimming through countless Amazon offers, digital newspaper subscriptions screaming $1 trials, and a Financial Times newsletter featuring an article on the one and only Miranda Priestly’s upcoming retirement.

She had known about it for a while now, there’d been a barely concealed buzz around it amongst the fashion editorial team for months. She’d been dying of curiosity for details but unwilling to admit it to her colleagues, having distanced herself from her history with _Runway_ for a while now.

It wasn’t as if she was ashamed of having worked in fashion, but she _was_ ashamed of the person she’d become while working there.

So she’d Googled all she could for any piece of information she could find, be it on _Runway_ , or Miranda, or even Emily – who’d left Runway to start an online fashion start-up with Serena. She couldn’t find much but the brief foray into the world of fashion journalism had jogged her memory – she had imagined the way Miranda would write her notes on the details in Versace’s latest line, wondered if Miranda still drank her coffee center-of-the-sun-hot, and a whole host of particulars she’d forgotten she kept at the back of her mind.

The nostalgia carried Andy through the next couple of days, a good, wistful, feeling, until she received an email alert during her Friday lunch break that her flowers had successfully been delivered (a tasteful arrangement of gardenias – she figured the classiest arrangement she could find on the website would be also the safest bet). She hadn’t put her name on the form she had to fill out for the card’s message.

Unless Miranda had, in the last three years, spared _any_ thought for Andy at all, there would be no way in heaven or earth that she would be able to figure out who the sender of her latest office table décor could be, especially since her message had been a generic-as-fuck-six-years-too-late, “Thank you.”

There were just too many people in the world who had Miranda to thank for something… to the point where Andy had almost regretted it – fifty dollars for something Miranda would likely just donate to her assistant or her trashcan because it could have come from _anyone_?

But no, she would not regret it. She hadn’t seen Miranda in the flesh since that brief nod she’d given the older woman across the street and soon enough, there would no longer be any possibility of that. She wanted to be a part of Miranda’s day one last time, albeit anonymously, and that was enough.

  

* * *

 

Of course, Andy had no idea that she’d been truly and terrifyingly _wrong_ about everything.

On Friday morning, she received a call from the receptionist in her office building informing her of an unexpected visitor, a Lucy-something, who had begged to see Andy or risk losing her job. Mind-boggled (because Andy wasn’t really important enough for anyone to lose their jobs over her) and faced with a sense of foreboding, she had abandoned her half-eaten Vietnamese spring rolls, and ventured down to reception.

“Hi?” Andy said, approaching the sole woman waiting in the lobby.

Lucy-something shot up from the couch she’d been assigned to. “Andrea Sachs?” she demanded, brashly. The girl’s catwalk-ready height immediately set off warning bells in her head, not to mention her curious - familiar - way of saying her name. _Ahn-dray-a_.

“Yes, but nobody calls me Andrea,” she said, the warning bells ringing louder the moment she heard herself speak.

Because –

“Miranda does,” the girl huffed, looking extremely put out. Her cheeks were pink from exertion, although Andy couldn’t tell if it had been physical or mental. Knowing Miranda though, it could have very well been both.

“Miranda?” Andy said, as if she’d forgotten she had known a person named as such.

“Please. I really don’t have time to spell it out for you. And anyway, this is for you.” She held out a small envelope. “I don’t know why this couldn’t go with the mail but whatever.”

“What’s this?”

The girl shrugged. Almost as if she pitied Andy, the girl reached out and patted her awkwardly on a shoulder. “Good luck. I have to go.”

Without waiting for Andy’s response, she turned and stalked towards the sliding doors in her 6-inch stilettos.

Andy stared at the envelope. The sender hadn’t even bothered to write her name on it. With shaking fingers, she pulled out a folded sheet of paper from its enclosure.

        _I dislike gardenias. I would have thought that you of all people would have known that._

She read it three times, feeling a hundred times shittier than just thirty seconds ago. It was a remarkably familiar feeling, a single person’s ability to make Andy feel like the world had ended with just a few, cuttingly articulate words.

Miranda had _never_ said anything about disliking gardenias before. The world knew that freesias were banned, but Miranda had never expressed a similar dislike for gardenias. In fact, Andy was pretty fucking sure that she’d seen gardenias in the editor’s home multiple times, on multiple fucking tables. Irritated, she shoved the paper back into the envelop it came in and went back to her desk, dropping the stupid note into her drawer so she wouldn’t have to see it. Out of sight, out of mind.

Andy should have known some shit like _this_ was the only potential outcome there could be, for bad ideas executed at 2AM. And she should have known that Miranda’s sixth sense was still as sharp and scary as it had always been, should have known that the woman was still an ungrateful bitch.

Refusing to spend any more thought on it, she dove into her work with a vengeance. She was almost thirty. Jesus Christ. She didn’t need to take anyone’s shit.

So fuck Miranda Priestly.

 

* * *

 

It had only taken four hours – about the same time it took her to draft, edit and file a short story – before Andy caved and yanked open her drawer, pulling so hard that she dislodged the drawer from its hinges and had to spend a frustrating five minutes trying to fix it.

Just like Miranda Priestly to _ruin_ everything, including her fucking work drawer.

She read the note again, analysed every single word on the crisp white stationery. The ink was undoubtedly from the Montblanc pen Andy knew Miranda carried in her purse – she even remembered the first time she had to send that particular pen to be serviced and the hell that had rained upon her when Miranda discovered some poor sucker had refilled the ink cartridge with blue ink rather than black.

“Self-entitled, privileged bitch,” Andy muttered, even as she ran her thumb over the indentations made by the purposeful writing style. And why a note, even? Hadn’t people move on to texts or emails already? It was unnecessarily dramatic.

Or maybe it was purposefully dramatic. She bit her lip.

Before she knew it, she was typing the website address of the flower delivery site she had ordered from into her browser.

She didn’t include a note this time. The air plant she’d chosen, an elegant, pale green botanical ornament, came in its own display stand of gold and marble - and was in fact, more expensive than the gardenias she had originally sent. She didn’t know if Miranda gardened - all her trips to the townhouse had never revealed any indication of a green thumb - and she remembered sorting out appointments for gardeners and the like for the townhouse years ago.

Still, she’d been reassured by the online articles and YouTube videos she’s trawled through, that an air plant was extremely low-maintenance should Miranda choose to keep the gift. Not that Miranda would actually water the plant herself, Andy snorted.

Andy didn’t hold much hope that her gift wouldn’t end up in the trash, but for some reason, felt compelled to send it anyway. It would be her last attempt at reaching out, she told herself.

And then she could close the last chapter of this book.

 

* * *

 

Andy didn’t hear back, nor did Lucy-something make an appearance, and she hated to admit the disappointment that had rung around in her chest in the week after she’d sent her second gift.

She fought the urge to ring up the florist to check if they’d actually sent out her order but the email alert she’d received two days after her order was placed had confirmed that they’d indeed delivered the plant to the Elias-Clark building.

She’d almost forgotten about it, two weeks later, before stumbling on a piece by Time weeks later, browsing through a well-thumbed copy of the magazine in a Starbucks near her office, having stopped by for a quick caffeine boost after an interview.

And there it was, her air plant in its fancy holder, not even cropped out of the photograph of the editor, as if it _belonged_ right there with her, beside an arrangement of white orchids and a silver-framed picture of her daughters.

Heart pounding hard, she packed up her things and darted out of the coffee shop, heading straight to a nearby newsstand to pick up her very own copy of the weekly.

That night, she read the article ten-times over, soaking up every detail of Miranda’s career, and departure from Runway. There weren’t many details in it that Andy didn’t already know (she had done _a lot_ of Googling) and the journalist had kept any semblance of adulation from the piece, unlike many other articles that had been published prior, but the photographs were _definitely_ new to Andy and she treasured those the most.

They were rare, seemingly unstaged photographs of Miranda working, with even one looking like a late night, Miranda curled up on the couch, feet tucked under, scribbling something in The Book against the dimming light outside.

Andy couldn’t imagine a world in which Miranda would agree to such an unguarded photoshoot session, and wondered which brave soul had managed such a feat. Someone had managed to convince Miranda to reveal moments like these to the world - moments that Andy had thought were her privilege to witness.

Her chest thrummed with envy, although each time she went back to the picture of Miranda at her desk, with the air plant by her side, her chest filled with something else.

 

* * *

 

Armed with the knowledge that Miranda had _kept_ her gift, and had kept it displayed so prominently in her space, Andy felt emboldened.

She still kept Miranda’s contact number and toyed with the idea of giving the older woman a call in the weeks after Miranda left _Runway_ , but chickened out each time.

Miranda would probably be busy. Everyone wanted Miranda’s time. Why would Miranda even talk to her? But then again, Miranda couldn’t be _that_ busy, could she? Retired people were retired for a reason.

It was still a strange concept - Miranda Priestly _retiring._ She’d always assumed that Miranda would continue to move up, perhaps joining Elias-Clark’s executive ranks. It was terrifying to know that Miranda leaving Runway, also meant that Miranda was leaving Andy’s world - Andy would never be able to walk past Elias-Clark at 9PM and look up wistfully at the still-lit floor of Miranda’s office anymore. Would Miranda’s presence at social events and fashion weeks slowly cease, now that she could spend more time with her children? Quite likely.

The Priestly twins had grown up to be stunning teens, each commanding a sizeable social media following, including fashion journalists who used their social media content as proxy into Miranda’s private life. A year ago, Andy had almost fallen on her face when a picture of Miranda lounging with Patricia in the townhouse’s garden had made circles when celebrity news columns had picked up the candid shot from Caroline’s Instagram feed.

Maybe Miranda would start appearing more on social media then, if she was going to spend more time with her girls. Andy shook her head, feeling like a creep that she was thinking of alternative ways to stalk Miranda.

So much for closing a chapter. It had never been about that. All she had was a desperate need to somehow reach out to Miranda again, so the damn woman wouldn’t disappear from the public and Andy’s life completely.

She would call Miranda tomorrow.

Switching off the lamp by her bedside, Andy flopped back down into bed and tried to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Her first call to Miranda went to voicemail.

Andy supposed she had been wrong, and that Miranda Priestly post-retirement would still be as busy - one did not simply just stop _being_ Miranda Priestly.

She wondered if Miranda still kept her number, and if she would recognise a missed call from Andy but when the day ended, and Miranda didn’t call her back, Andy figured she hadn’t.

She tried again the next morning, a Saturday morning, and on the fifth ring, just as Andy was about to hang up, Miranda picked up.

“Hello?”

Andy broke into a grin at the voice speaking down the line. She held her coffee cup tighter on instinct, and curled up on her couch.

“Miranda? It’s Andy.”

When she didn’t hear a response, Andy cleared her throat. “Andrea? I suppose you never kept my number,” she said, lightly.

“Hello, Andrea. And no, I did not.” The other woman managed to sound displeased but Andy refused to let this deter her.

“How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you for asking, Andrea. And yourself?”

The way Miranda said her name made her belly shiver. She’d forgotten how long it had been. Almost a decade. God, she’d been so young and stupid then, trembling like an idiot each time Miranda called her name. It had been fear then, but now, she almost found it delightful, like biting into unexpectedly sweet fruit. With a sudden overwhelming clarity, Andy realised she liked it, wanted more of it.

“I’m doing great.” _And you didn’t hang up on me_ , she didn’t say. “I didn’t know you disliked gardenias,” she said, instead.

“Clearly,” Miranda said, without malice. “Anything but gardenias.”

“I’ve seen them in the townhouse, though,” Andy mentioned, curious.

“Not anymore,” Miranda said, flatly.

Andy swallowed, having obviously brought up a touchy subject. Peddling back, she said: “I’m glad you liked the air plant. Um, I don’t really know what it’s called. But it looks good on your desk. Did you -” Andy paused, trying to find the right words. “Did you take it home with you?”

“I see you read that Time piece.”

“It was a great one. The pictures were -” _Breathtaking._ “Really good.”

“It wasn’t awful,” Miranda said, which was in itself great praise.

“I was wondering how anyone could have convinced you to do it,” Andy pondered.

“I almost sued them - the girl who did the interview _never_ told me that this ridiculous man with her had been taking photographs of _me_ in that way. He was supposed to be documenting the office, or the working process - some silly thing she said.”

“But I’m sure she told you,” Andy said, confidently.

“You would say that. But who knows what she said,” Miranda retorted, and Andy could immediately picture Miranda completely ignoring the formalities and demanding to get the interview over with.

“Still, you let them go to print so you must somewhat like it?”

“PR liked it, and thought the millennials would like it,” Miranda sighed.

“PR was right. I’m a millennial and I liked it. The one that went up on the Time’s Instagram is already being shared left and right by your groupies.” Andy had spent the previous night, stalking the #MirandaPriestly hashtag on Instagram and Twitter.

“I do not have groupies,” Miranda said, aghast.

Andy was fairly sure though, that Miranda was more aware of what happened online than she let on.

“You don’t go on Instagram, do you?”

“And be under siege by these millennials? Why would I subject myself to that?” Miranda said, and Andy could hear something like humour in her voice.

The flow of the conversation was giving Andy confidence that Miranda didn’t dislike the idea of talking to her altogether. Ignoring the fact, of course, that this was the first conversation they’d had since Andy walked out on Miranda years ago in Paris, and Andy had sent Miranda botany out of nowhere after that. Nonetheless, for the first time in her life, it felt like she was on the same footing, talking to Miranda - not talking to the queen as a scullery maid.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to see what Caroline shows the world about you?” Andy teased.

“Ah, I just need to read the news to know what Caroline shows the world about me.”

Andy chuckled. Miranda wasn’t entirely wrong.

“And yes, I did take it home with me. And your air plant is called tillandsia tectorum,” Miranda said, like the know-it-all that she was. It made Andy smile, pleased that the other woman had bothered to check for the name.

“Did a poor assistant have to spend days in the library, reading botany books to figure this one out?”

“Andrea. Don’t be ridiculous. My assistants would never have had days to figure something out. _You_ should know that.”

“I’d forgotten that fact,” Andy said. She heard the sound of a door opening on the other end, and another female voice murmuring in the background.

“It was that journalist who told me the name of the plant. Apparently, she keeps a few of her own,” Miranda said, moments later.

“Sounds like kismet.”

“Or a coincidence, as what most things are. As much as I’d like to continue this conversation, Andrea, I’m supposed to go for lunch with the girls today,” Miranda said.

“No, no, I called out of the blue anyway,” Andy said, graciously. The coffee had become lukewarm. “Have a good day, Miranda. It was nice talking to you.”

“Yes, you too, Andrea. Goodbye.”

“Bye!” Andrea said, and hung up.

On a hunch, she opened the browser on her phone and typed in a name on the search bar. It drew up a couple of links to Time’s website, as well as a personal portfolio. She tapped on one of the Time links, and it pulled up a brief written profile of one of their contributors. With it, was a small headshot.

Andy pinched her screen to zoom in, gut tingling.

The journalist who had written the Time piece on Miranda was practically just a skinnier, tanner version of herself. Huh. Maybe, just maybe, Miranda had a soft spot for Andy lookalikes.

That suspicion itself gave Andy all the courage she needed, because she was a journalist, and Andy Sachs wasn’t known to let a good, hot lead go without sticking her nose into it.


End file.
